Shattered Glass in Flower Beds
by Luna Quiche
Summary: The missiles have been fired, fate has been decided. Now it is absolutely too late to do anything about it. Funeral-fic, AU in which Akira died by a missile and George attends his burial. No pairing, but George-Akira if you want it to be.


**A/N: I have so much PrezAki fluff in my head, but what ends up being written is the angst. Hah. Suffer with me people. This is actually older, but I had only posted it on tumblr so far. **

**For you information, before the finale had fully aired, I was completely convinced that this would be the end of Tsuritama. I was almost 100 percent certain that George would end up firing and that only Akira would die. Yeah.**

* * *

_"I feel like I'm gonna explode_

_Any moment_

_I'm ready to blow_

_I can't stand it, I get so worried_

_I get so low_

_But if I'm never your hero I can never let you down"_

_And the sirens go "Oh ah oh ah"_

-Patrick Stump, 'Explode'

* * *

George didn't pay attention to the people around him, but as he stepped forward he could still feel their eyes on him, bundled to the intensity of one single godly stare. It wasn't like he was unused to such sensations, but this time it was an almost foreign experience. However, he didn't turn around and kept his gaze focused on the coffin in front of him, as if he wanted see through it, look right at the person inside.

"Yama~da."

There was something final about the sound of the name. George knew that after this, he'd never say it again and he already missed its taste on his tongue.

One single missile. How likely was it for everyone to survive, safe for one single person? One single immature idealist? George could almost have sworn he did it on purpose, just to get back at him once and for all.

In a single fast movement he took off his glasses, not hesitating any longer. The light of the day was bright, almost too bright for his eyes. The colours of his surroundings were too light, disproportionally happy. The flowers were screaming red, purple and then white, white, white, untainted and merciless. It was such bittersweet irony that George felt the urge to laugh, while his hands held his sunglasses firmly. This was the kind of reality Yamada had lived in all of his life. Like a colourful child's painting. How fitting.

"I told you so."

Maybe sometime else he would've smirked when saying these words, like he had done countless times already. But George didn't feel like smiling. There was no sense in smiling at a coffin, smiling at a body that was out of sight. There was no sense in talking to such a thing either, George knew better than anybody else, but regardless of that there were some words that still needed to be spoken. 'I'm sorry' was on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be said out loud, but George refused. He told him so. It wasn't his fault. So instead there was something else he needed to say.

"But despite your foolish behaviour…"

He paused. It was heavy and ridiculously too late.

"…I respect your efforts. You are the pride of DUCK."

In the following silence George could only hear his own breath and feel his own heartbeat.

'That's it, right? That's what you wanted to hear.'

George Ace didn't believe in the afterlife, but for this moment he believed in Akira and that was enough.

Everyone seemed to be looking at his eyes as he finally turned around. They were all there, even the alien and every one of them was looking at him. He could feel the eyes of all present DUCK members as well, despite their dark shades. George gave them a confident smile. Every muscle of his face seemed to ache as he stepped back, smile still on his lips, but then they all went numb and George couldn't feel anything anymore. When he put his glasses back on he just kept smiling until he was home.

He felt sick and dizzy and for a second he had to hold on to the kitchen cupboard in order to not just suddenly fall over. There was nothing he could vomit anymore, not after throwing up two times, but that didn't shake off the feeling of being nauseous.

_Yamada._

George had lost agents before, he knew how it felt, the thought 'I would have saved them' always pressing against the back of his mind. But this time it wasn't his fault. This one he could not have saved.

_Yamada._

George had tried his best. Too little, too late and the decision of firing the missiles had been taken from him, but he had tried. Because he believed in Yamada, for a few foolish moments just before his hope died along with the phone connection.

_Yamada._

Shouting at people was something he remembered doing, then running out and staring at the burning horizon. When the others were brought back- shivering, hurt, cold – he remembered that he wanted to ask something, but he had choked on the name.

_Yamada._

Their eyes had been on him back then, at the funeral and even the time in between, when he had been alone. Blaming him. Even if it was their fault. Even if they had been the ones to delude Yamada like that.

_Yamada._

George pressed his hand against his mouth. His heart was racing and the feeling of being ill was still very present. His shoulders were trembling. There was no use in being awake in this state. He stumbled to his bedroom, passing the mirror. His steps came to a reluctant stop and he found himself staring into his own eyes. They looked awful, so easy to read. This was why DUCK members required sunglasses.

_Yamada, Yamada, Yamada._

If there was one person, who… One person, who…

George hit the ground almost softly as he fell unconscious.

The world was dark, almost black, shaded heavily. Even his own mirror image was dark in dark, the pitch-black sunglasses seeming like the direct opposite of anything light.

George's painted lips twisted into a cold smile, as empty as his heart was when he left the apartment to return to his duty at the council.

He was missing out on a beautiful and bright day, but sacrifices needed to be made, each and every moment.


End file.
